The Fields of Mirrors
by Persephone Falling
Summary: Landis burns, but Meira is saved by Sir Ronsenburg. Years later, Ondore gives her a chance at a new life. With the Resistance in need of a leader, Ondore surrenders peace for war and Meira must decide what's worth saving and what's worth letting go.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** **FFXII belongs to Square Enix. **

A/N: This fic includes OCs. It takes place before, during, and after the main events of FFXII. It is not a written account of those events (if you're looking for that, there are some great fics out there.) Gabranth, Basch, and Marquis Ondore IV are some major players - in the fic, that is ;). Concrit, comments, blasphemy and ferrets welcomed.

**The Fields of Mirrors**

**Prologue**

** Roses and Wine**

On the day the Archadian forces invaded the Republic of Landis the harvest festival began. All over the country, farmers hurried to cut, sort, and clean their crops. In the small town of Tas Rostadt, the local tyanyan maker announced that, serendipitously, his grapes were ready to be picked and crushed that very day. This meant that what was usually the most productive day of the year became something of a rehearsal for the night's festivities. All other crops were ignored while the grapes were gathered into buckets, except the occasional one that somehow found its way directly from the vine into the mouth, or those that children tossed at each other and crushed underfoot while dashing to and fro. In hours, the tyanyin maker's whole vineyard was picked clean without him once having lifted a finger, though every family assured him that he now owed them each a bottle of the vintage. Then the crushing took place, with four or five pairs of feet stomping in the grape filled wooden vats and each hand clasped on to a neighbour's shoulder, so that when one person slipped, everyone else followed, laughing as they fell one after the other like sticky dominoes. By the end of it, everyone's feet and ankles were stained alike a hue of deep purple.

Afterward, barefoot and hatless despite their father's warnings, Meira and her sister Nessa chased one another through what was left of the tall barley yields near the road, their small feet flying like purple finches until, exhausted, they collapsed in a fit of giggles. Lying on their backs, each trying to convince the other she'd won, they saw neither soldier nor airship. And as they walked down the road toward the festival, there was only the huge and harmless sky, heavy in the west with the hot setting sun, and a wrinkle of grey clouds on the eastern horizon

"There's a storm coming," chirped Nessa. She was riding on Meira's shoulders. Unknotting one of Meira's ponytails, she tied her hair back with the blue ribbon while struggling to maintain her balance. "They'll have to cover the vats. And the wagons. It's bad luck."

"I hope it gets here soon and sweeps you away so I don't have to carry you anymore," said Meira, "you heavy lump."

"I am not a heavy lump – you take that back!"

"Aye – you area _huge_ lump – the wind won't be able to carry _you_ away!" she said and laughed, laughing even more when Nessa protested.

ooOoo

"My son," exclaimed Amos fon Rothbauer holding a letter in one hand and what looked like a small necklace in the other, "a pilot!" He laughed and slapped the back of the nearest man at the table before continuing to read the letter aloud while those who were interested leaned in, straining to hear him over the general commotion in the pub. Nearly the whole town was packed into the pub and the air was thick with smoke and the smell of sweet mead, apples, and breads. In the corner, couples and children danced around the small band, to their frenzied music and the beat of those clapping around them. Nessa danced (by far the smallest in the crowd,) but Meira sat with her hands squeezed between her knees. She was hoping that despite her sunburnt face she might be asked to dance by a slightly older boy who was drinking not far from her with a group of friends. Finally Nessa had to yank her up. It was only then that the older boy came over to dance, though they didn't dance together, and Meira spent the whole time looking down at her feet, and trying to hide her finger nails, and wishing that she'd washed.

"Meira! Meira!" Amos bellowed across the room, waving the letter in the air. Meira heard and skipped toward him and Nessa trailed after her, out of breath and still dancing so that some of the women fawned over her as she went by ("So cute!" "That's Amos' youngest." "Looks so much like her poor mother.")

"Where is your sis – ah, there she is. Oouf!" he said. Nessa bounded unto his lap. He held the necklace out in front of Meira's eyes. "For you," he said. A delicate chain attached to a silver bird with outstretched wings. The phoenix. "From your brother – and hell it must have been for him to get it." Her father handed her the letter as well.

"What about me? What do I get?" Nessa whined.

"Ah, you little one, get – tickled!"

As Nessa shrieked while their father tickled her, Meira read the letter from her brother:

_Dear Father, _

_After these two long years my training is finally complete. I am now a pilot in the Crimson Wings. Hopefully I won't play too much the fool._

_Negotiations with the Archadians are still ongoing, yet it is only a matter of time before their Emperor Gramis and our Ministers reach a trade agreement. Until then, I must remain in the capital, though our role here is limited to banquets, looking formal-like, and air shows to impress the Archadians. _

_By the time you get this letter it will be the harvest festival. Send me a bottle of tyanyin, will you? These city folk charge a fortune for it. _

_The Gods be with you,_

_Amos Jr. fon Rothbaur of the Order of the Crimson Wings of the Third Squadron of the Most Hon. First Ministers and Magistrates of the Peace. _

_P.S.: What a title when only a few days ago I was still just a farm boy from Tas Rostadt competing with hundreds like me or better._

_P.P.S: Enclosed is the symbol of our Order. I had to pretend I lost the first that was given to me in order to get it (now my Captain thinks I am absent-minded and is constantly double-checking my work and uniform.) Give it to Meira, will you? _

ooOoo

That night Nessa, still aflutter from the celebrations, insisted on sleeping in Meira's room. Even with her pillow cocooned around her head, she could not block out Nessa's shrill excitement. " – yes, and that's what I told him too. Oh! And did you see the wyrdhares? Do you think father will bring me one this year? I can take care of it, I'm old enough, I _am_ – and last year he said – neschi! You're not even listening!"

"Ow! Don't pinch me, Nessa. And don't swear! I was listening, just trying not to .. ow! Stop, you little wyrm!"

Eventually the night air cooled and so did Nessa along with it, her comments and complaints becoming softer and fewer and then finally there was only deep, steady breaths. The blanket was tugged from one sister to the other until both were tangled in it and in each other's limbs, two tangled sleeping kittens.

ooOoo

It was in the night that they attacked. At first, the sounds that reached Meira's ears bent to the will of her dreams. Cries and bombardments had a dissonant music to them, like drums and chimes heard underwater. How long this lasted she'd never be sure. Then suddenly she was pulled from this dream, shook violently awake by sweaty hands and a harsh, frightened voice.

"Meira, wake up, _wake up!_" the voice cried. She opened her eyes and saw her father, his face white and eyes frantic. He was not looking at her, but instead above her, through the window. What sounded like thunder roared outside again and again, in quick succession, filling the room with dazzling light and then darkness again.

"Is it a storm?" she asked. She sat up. She felt Nessa's small arm slip through hers.

"Nay," he whispered, "'tis not thunder you hear." He looked down at her, struggling for words. "We ... We have been invaded."

"What – " What did he mean, 'invaded'? Invaded by what? The rabid wolves that last year had slaughtered so many of Tas Rostadt's chocobos? Was that why she could see the glint of the same rifle used to kill them clutched in her father's hand? Yet his hands were shaking. They'd not been shaking the last time.

"Get up now. We must go. Get your sister."

Twisting around, Meira laid one arm over Nessa's shoulders and the other under her legs. Her sister's nightgown, cold and wet, stuck to her hand and Meira recoiled automatically.

"What is it?"

"I ... she's wet herself."

Nessa started crying. Pushing Meira aside, he picked Nessa up with one arm.

"Hold it," he said and handed Meira the rifle. Just then there were a dozen short pounds against the house. Again and again – and the sound of broken glass. Nessa screamed. Amos grabbed Meira's hand and pulled her out of the room. Fast, fast they ran through the hallway and the smell of smoke and burnt wood. They ran towards the front entrance, but the windows were shattered and flames rose up from the floor to the ceiling, blocked the door. On the ground and walls arrows still aflame were imbedded into the wood.

"The monsters," her father cried, "they mean to burn us alive in our sleep. Come on, the back door!"

Now the smoke was worse and Meira could hardly see. Her eyes stung and she could hear her father coughing. His hand held unto hers so tight it hurt. The fire seemed to be everywhere; sweat rolled down her back and the heat was almost burning her skin. Her father threw open the door and they stumbled out into the cold night air. Meira could see again. The sky flashed white and red. Shouting came from both far and near, in every direction. And there was gunfire. Gunfire – and more fire arrows – a shower of them pierced the ground near her feet. Her scream caught in her mouth as her father yanked her around the corner, and to the ground, so that her back was pressed again the icy stone of a water well. He crouched beside her with Nessa shaking in his arms.

"Listen to me, Meira," her father whispered urgently, "Dios' house is but a hundred yards from here." He put Nessa down and pushed her into Meira's arms. "Near the hearth and under the carpet there's a door to the cellar. Take your sister and hide there – don't argue with me," he said, cutting her off before she could speak, "just take your sister and go – go! Go now! Run!"

And she did. Away from the sound of arrows striking the ground, away from her father, away from home, she ran fast towards the dirt road and didn't look back. Nessa's sweaty hands kept slipping from her own. Broken barrels were strewn across the road and the ground was muddy with wine. Roses, lilies, and a dozen other flowers spilled out from overturned wagons were stomped underfoot, the thorns cutting up their bare feet. Keeping running, she told herself, keep running. But when she saw Dios' house completely engulfed in flames, which licked the sides and roof like giant, searing tongues, and as far as her eyes could see each house after also alight, Meira stopped running: for where was there to go?

Nessa pulled at her arm. "We have to go back for papa!"

But Meira could not go back. She could not go forward. Her legs shook under her as her eyes darted all around her, afraid of every sound, every shadow and light that sped across the land and sky. It was then, while her eyes were upon everything but Nessa, that her sister's hand slipped from her own one last time. Meira turned and looked. Nessa was running down the road, back towards the house.

"Nessa!" Meira screamed. She tried to run after her, but her legs would not move. Then she heard a voice cry out:

"Bomb the road!"

And the ground burst. Dirt shot up into the air. Meira's ears rang. All she could see was dust and smoke. Dirt rained down on her, into her mouth and eyes. She cried out, but heard nothing. She felt something hot and sharp slam against her. Then she could not breathe. There was no ground. Then darkness.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**Hurry**

Then light. Yellow shoots of it. The shoots stood still then trembled. Still, then trembled, like silent beats of a weak heart. Barley, she thought, the smell of it now so strong despite her short panting breaths.

Where was the sky? She turned her head and everything was blotted out by blackness once more.

ooOoo

There it was again, the quiet barley. She could feel it crushed underneath her, scratching her back, and around her, brushing roughly against her face every time it moved. And something else: a flash of golden blonde hair, moving deceptively amidst the yellow barley, by her feet. She raised her head and looked down. A dark cloak, a hand holding down her right leg – her leg: a twisted gash of flesh and blood in the barley. She tried to scream, but there was no noise. The bombs and fire rushed to her mind and panic took her instinctively, it flooded over her, faster than even the ringing in her ears. Hands sticky with blood clamped down on her mouth, and a face appeared, its lips moving. But to Meira, in her fear, this face was like some monster or wild animal, the hand like a claw about to tear. She flung out her arms to push this thing away, or hit it – even kill it – anything to get away from this danger. It took only one red claw to seize both her hands and restrain her. The other was torn from her mouth. Briefly, she saw a hume with narrowed brows, and a fist flying towards her, and then nothing.

ooOoo

"Che'lum ... Che? Che'lum, can you hear me?"

Meira opened her eyes, but everything was dark. Blind and deaf, is this what dying is, she thought to herself. She felt a hand on her cheek. Underneath her head there was no longer the scratchy feel of barley, but something warmer, soft and solid. Slowly, she began to see shapes; shadows in shadows moving across her vision. She was not blind: it was night. And she was not deaf any longer.

"Speak if you can hear me," hissed a male voice.

Meira replied in a small one, "... A-aye, I hear."

The voice sighed. Hands moved to her arms, pulled and held her up by the shoulders so that she was sitting. Her head ached and her ears were pounding. She touched them and felt something caked underneath. Dirt? Or was it blood? Her hand moved gingerly toward her leg to be sure that it was still there.

"I've dressed it as best I can, but I am no healer," he whispered.

"I can't feel it..."

"Aye, and that is a gift, one that took precious herbs. When feeling returns, I doubt not that you will wish it numb again."

"Where's Nessie?" She asked.

"I know not of whom you speak. We are in the fields, where I found you. Pray, lower your voice. Though not many, there are still Archadians afoot."

She did not remember running into any field. She remembered being on the road, she remembered explosions. Was her sister in the field? She must be.

"Nessa!" she cried out in a hushed tone.

"Pray, quieter," he said. He pressed a finger to her mouth. "Or saving you will be all for naught."

In the darkness the features of this man who claimed to have saved her were indistinct. He looked to be a young man, barely a man at all, though several years older than she. His body seemed tense, very still like that of an animal hunting. Or hiding. She wondered if he too was afraid. He moved his hand from her mouth to her chin and brushed a calloused thumb across her cheek. She winced.

"I am sorry for the injury I caused you. I thought it better to keep you unconscious than to try to explain, lest you scream from pain as well as fear," he said.

"I thought you an Archadian ..."

"Nay, though you must be blessed to have escaped them. What is your name? Can you fight? Have you skill with sword or bow?" he asked.

"Meira ... Fon Rothbauer. I – no, no, I can't fight," she replied.

"Rothbauer? Be you a farmer?"

"My papa's a farmer."

Would he leave her there alone now that he knew she was useless, she wondered.

"It matters not," he said dismissively and added in a sullen tone, as if rebuking himself, "'twas a pointless question for you could not fight, even if you had the skill, with your leg such as it is." He let go of her, looked around, and then down at the ground, apparently contemplating some decision. "If the capital still stands," he began, more to himself than to her, "if our forces still stand, then there is still hope for the Republic." He looked up at her. "Wait here," he said and sprinted off, crouched down so low he was almost on all fours.

ooOoo

Dawn broke; there was no real hint of sunrise. The dark cerulean night washed away, revealing only an ashen grey new morning.

Meira hugged her left leg to her body. She dared not touch her right. It was bandaged well, and quite thoroughly, but felt affixed no more securely than the leg of a doll sewn with only a few stitches.

She waited. She tried to think of nothing. But she could not; she kept thinking of Nessa. Nessa's pale hair tangled from sleep. She'd forgotten to remove the blue ribbon she'd taken from Meira earlier that day. Before the bombs fell, and before she'd lost sight of her sister, Meira watched the ribbon come undone as Nessa ran farther and farther away from her. Watching, she had thought of the most trivial of things: how the ribbon was the exact shade of a robin's egg, how the mess of Nessa's hair made it look almost like a nest. The ribbon had been a gift, and as it fell to the ground she remembered thinking that it would be impossible to clean once sullied by the mud. But she did not see it even touch the ground. The bombs fell before it did. How could she have thought those things, despite the terror? Or was it because of it? Would she ever see Nessa again? And where was her father? Would the last words she ever hear from him be that desperate command? They can't be dead, she thought to herself, _please._ And the tears spilled over. They could not be stopped.

The Landian young man was quite close before Meira heard his footsteps, and though she had time to hide her tears, she did not even bother to wipe her face; she could not stop crying anyhow. In the faint light she could see him more clearly: a handsome young man with small, serious eyes. Both his sleeves were torn off, his bare arms bruised. From behind her he grabbed the cloak her head had rested on. He wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling the hood, which smelled of rawhide, down over her forehead. The clasp was a bronze twelve point star with a rose blossoming in its middle. She fiddled with this so she didn't have to look at him while crying.

"Most of the soldiers still lie fast asleep in the pavilion. There is but one guard on patrol – a mere boy – we should be able to reach their chocobos with him none the wiser. By the look of him he won't be any trouble, if it comes to that."

Meira said nothing.

"You will lose that leg or die of fever," he said gravely, "if we do not find a healer ... or some herbs perhaps would do, but I cannot search for those here ... and if we do not flee now, who knows when or if there is another chance? When they find us they will slaughter us."

But still Meira said nothing.

The man sighed. He moved closer to her.

"Meira," he said softly.

She did not respond.

"Meira," he began again, brushing away her tears with his rough fingertips, "I know you are afraid, and that these tears come easily, but you must find your strength." He raised her chin so that her eyes were level with his. "I am Sir Ronsenburg, a knight of the Guildenster Order. It is my sworn oath to protect the citizens of Landis. This I promise thee: as long as you remain by my side, no harm shall come to you."

Meira looked back down at the clasp between her fingers. _A knight._

"... I don't think I can stand up."

"Then I will carry you."

The Landian man slipped his arms under her thighs and back. Lifting her up, he stood, his own back hunched over. He adjusted his grip on her and before she knew it she was flung over his shoulder like a sack.

"Oomph!"

"Shh, quiet. Silent as a stone, Meira."

The cold, wet morning air enveloped her. She shut her eyes tight, uneasy without the protection of his body. He sprinted fast through the field. The barley shushed around them, warning them to stay quiet, as they moved through it. Meira gripped the young man's shirt with her fists. The metal spaulder on his shoulder dug painfully into her flesh.

No sooner did she hear the sharp sound of gravel underfoot than his footsteps returned to suppler ground. Far off there were other footsteps and close by, too close for comfort, snores. Meira opened her eyes and craned her neck. The pavilion where Archadian soldiers slept soundly stood inches in front of her. Her house, she knew, must be somewhere behind it. The young man tiptoed away. As the pavilion became smaller and smaller, the view for Meira became larger; where the roof of her house once stood, now only a weak stream of smoke could be seen. She was glad when they got inside the chocobo tent and her view was once more obstructed.

The young man plunked her down beside the entrance. A dozen chocobos cooed and eyed them with suspicion. The soft footsteps of the guard were close by now. As the knight hurried to find a saddle, the chocobos pawed the dirt with their claws. He approached, but they back away and tossed their heads in agitation.

"Wark –"

"_Wark._"

"Wark."

"The greens," whispered Meira, pointing up above her where dried grysahl greens hung. He snatched the greens and flung them toward the chocobos. It was a mistake. All dozen of them raced to the spot where the grysahl greens fell, pushing and nipping each other to get at the spot. They cried louder and more insistently than before.

"Huh - what? Hm ... " mumbled a voice outside. The knight darted to the entrance. Sword raised above his head, he froze in place across from Meira. Meira clasped her hands over her mouth and tried not to breathe. The footsteps hastened toward the entrance to the tent and then paused.

"Hello?" the guard said. For a few agonizing seconds all Meira could see was the blade he had thrust in front of him as he walked in slowly. She looked straight into his face, but he was looking ahead at the chocobos, unaware of the two silent thieves on either side of him. The knight unfroze. With a yell, he hurled his sword down like a guillotine upon the guard's neck, severing his head from his body. Meira had seen her father slit the throats of cockatrices many times; their bodies twitched and twitched, even as their eyes glazed over. The soldier's body barely wavered as its knees buckled, the neck spitting out blood that spattered across the white hem of Meira's nightdress. The real difference was that Meira always felt sorry when the creatures died; the Archadian's death was a relief – a horror, yes, but a relief. The chocobos only momentarily scattered to the four corners of the tent as the severed head rolled to where the grysahl greens lay. They returned and simply nudged it out of the way.

The knight fumbled as he hurried to saddle the nearest chocobo. He grabbed Meira, lifted her up onto it, and then clambered up himself, a look of shock etched in his face.

"Yah!" he cried.

The blood on her legs smudged against the chocobo's bright yellow feathers as it leaped out of the tent and galloped away from the only home Meira had ever known.

ooOoo

They rode for hours through fields half reaped. Always, they kept as far from the roads as possible, even when it meant trudging through the river, which despite the warmer weather was cold as death, made Meira cry, and both of them shiver (though the knight handled the ordeal more stoically and did not cry so.) Neither saw another soul, though they heard, off in the distance, the sounds of war, which felt to them ever present. It was slow going: their chocobo, seemingly aware that its passengers were not Archadians, was churlish, often pulling at the reins or stopping altogether for no apparent reason, heedless of the knight's commands.

"Meira, are you awake?"

"..Uh huh."

"Up ahead, is that Snowfly Forest?"

"Mm .. Aye. I think so."

"We will make our way through there. It goes straight through this province to the next, does it not? That forest is dense and dark. I doubt many Archadian would dare venture through for they know not its paths."

The Snowfly Forest was named such because of the numerous white flies that drifted and glistened like snowflakes, and buzzed like angry wasps.

Meira's body already ached with exhaustion. The constant trot of the chocobo became more and more painful for her throbbing leg, and as they rode through the forest a fever took hold of her. Both of them were hungry (as was the chocobo, who took to pecking occasionally at the knight's hands,) covered in filth and blood, and very, very tired. When Meira suggested they rest, the knight wordlessly slipped her off the chocobo and propped her against a tree.

"We should have rested sooner," he said, looking her over apprehensively. Sweat rolled down her forehead. She shivered uncontrollably though she didn't feel cold any longer. "It cannot be put off ... I must search for herbs now. I will return shortly with medicine for your leg. And food for our mouths, I hope."

The knight disappeared into the forest, leaving her slumped against the tree, swatting at the snowflies that buzzed around her head and tried crawling into her ears and nose.

The slight movements of the forest canopy made shadows and light caper together across the terrain. Meira tried to focus her attention on their individual dances: a dizzying waltz on the trunk of the adjacent tree, a tango on the leaves strewn across the forest floor. The murky woods were drenched in a cool green, yet Meira sweltered and heaved, cocooned in delirium, isolated from all that surrounded her like a white-hot coal thrust into water sustained only by its own heat.

When will he return, she wondered. She was tired. So tired. She stopped bothering to swat at the snowflies; she let them stick in her sweat.

ooOoo

He did find food, but he did not give any to her. It was barely edible and, as he explained while unwrapping the bandages on her right leg, would do their chocobo more good than them. Under the first few layers the bandages were still wet with her blood. The smell of it, sharp and coppery, made Meira feel nauseous and seemed as much a taste upon her tongue as a scent in the air. Tufts of small red feathers peeked out from between Sir Ronsenburg's fingers. His features, marred by blood and dirt, were nonetheless quite fair. She thought of her brother, Amos, whose own skin was tough and leathery from years of labour on the farm.

"Are you really a knight?"

He glanced at her and frowned. "Yes ... Almost," he said defensively as he continued unwrapping. He paused to wipe her brow. "I'm a squire. I will be a knight of Landis ... some day – soon."

"Oh," Meira said, wincing as he removed the final layer of dressing. She kept her eyes on his face, afraid of what her leg might look like. She waited for him to apply the phoenix down, but he did not.

"What's wrong?" she asked nervously.

"As I told you, I am no healer ..." he said, "I fear the bone must be set again."

"But why can't you just –"

"I can heal the wound with this, but if I do not set the bone again the leg will not heal properly."

A new kind of nausea swept over Meira as his words sunk in. This was not the first time she'd broken a bone. When she was six, and just learning how to ride on her own, she had fallen from her chocobo. With arms outstretched to break the fall, her right wrist smacked against the hard ground, twisted, and snapped. For a moment the shocking pain had been too much for her even to catch her breath, but when she did she cried out and her father's voice met hers. In seconds she was held tight in the safety of his stout arms. His voice and touch, it had always meant safety. None of that was here now; there was only fear holding Meira, pain and the promise of more pain.

With no response from her, Sir Ronsenburg set aside the phoenix down and placed both hands on her leg, preparing for the deed.

"No – don't!"

He looked at her incredulously. "It will be crippled," he said with emphasis.

"I don't care. Just don't. Don't touch it," Meira said, shifting away from him.

"As you wish," said Sir Ronsenburg.

He removed his hands from her leg. She relaxed. Then, before she could protest, he seized her legs and snapped the bone in place. With one arm he held her against the tree while she shrieked. He shoved the phoenix down in the wound and a strange burning sensation spread though her leg and quickly seared away the piercing pain.

"It will take a few minutes to heal fully. I am sorry," said the knight as he got up, and he looked it too, "but you will thank me someday, though I doubt not you damn me now."

He wasn't far from the truth. However, the pain was already almost gone. The phoenix down, smoking and sizzling, did its work and Meira could breathe steadily again.

Her fever too retreated. She felt chilly. A fire would fix this, yet her obstinacy prevented her from speaking to the knight quite yet except to grumble how knights were supposed to rescue maidens, not terrorize them. To this he did not respond.

He sat down on the log to which he'd tied the chocobo. From his pocket he removed a small whetstone. Unsheathing one of his swords, he began to sharpen it. The slow rhythmic clash of stone against steel overtook the silence.

When he finished sharpening the first, he propped it against the log and began working on the second sword. Neither was pretty. They were dented and completely unadorned. To Meira he looked more like a boy playing with his father's old swords than a knight. Yet hours ago he had killed an Archadian soldier. The specks of blood still covered his fair face.

"Another day before we're free of this forest," he spoke.

"Where are we going?" she asked, realizing she didn't know.

"We head to Fort Baunfelz, and from there I ride to the capital." He placed the second sword beside the first and scooted off the log so he was sitting with his bottom on the grass and knees up. He grabbed a fistful of moss, looking more a boy than ever, yanked it from the earth, and scattered it in from of him.

"I hail from the region of Bavar, originally, though not from the capital," he said rubbing his nose. "Have you heard the tale of the great wyrm of Bavar?"

Meira did not respond. He grabbed another fistful of moss and threw it toward the chocobo who twitched and warked in annoyance.

"Are we at war now?" Meira asked.

"Aye, and I will fight for my country," he said with such bravado that Meira felt a temporary dislike for him, and a gulf between them: he, one boy who had beheaded another, and she – well, she –

"I just want to go home," she said.

"There's naught left there but ash," he responded, but upon catching the look on her face, added more kindly, "all who escaped would flee as we are toward Fort Baunfelz. 'Tis the nearest stronghold. If your family – ... your family would be at Baunfelz."

She said nothing, but held unto that delicate hope, repeated it like a mantra over and over in her head, until she was almost certain it was so. That it had to be. It just had to be.

She pulled at the grass by her feet, absently flinging every handful.

ooOoo

The cold air of the forest got even colder when dusk arrived. Meira and her knight slept curled up to each other, his chest to her back and arm over hers. Though he was a stranger, she did not find this odd. Having herself shared a bed with siblings for many years there seemed no impropriety in it.

Meira had only her nightgown and his cloak to cover herself with. Her bare feet, especially cold, made it impossible for her to feel comfortable. Even if her feet were warm, and the ground soft and dry instead of hard and dewy, she would have had trouble falling asleep in that darkness. She was afraid of sleep now, of what might happen when she closed her eyes. Insomnia would follow her into every bed she lay in, makeshift or not, for years to come.

ooOoo

After Meira had left the tavern, the night of the attack, she'd put on the silver necklace with the phoenix pendant that her brother sent. He father reminded her to take it off before she went to bed, and though she said she would, Meira planned never to remove the thing. Its design was formal. Originally a military pin, her brother himself had added the chain, hoping to make it more appealing to the tastes of a young girl. Meira, knowing little about jewellery having grown up with none, had not perceived any stiffness of design; she saw only a pretty necklace, her first pretty necklace. But now it was so much more than that. It was a keepsake, the only one she had.

As they neared the edge of the forest the canopy thinned. Warm light poured down on them, raising their temperatures and spirits both. The plains stretched out before them, unblemished by any signs of battle. And it was truly quiet, finally. Perhaps too quiet, but the sunlight lent a kind of safety to the openness of the landscape. Surely, they could see anything coming from a mile away. Even their chocobo seemed of a better temperament; having accepted its new masters, it no longer stalled or pecked at Sir Ronsenburg's hands. For Meira, the apparent safety of their present situation allowed her to voice various grievances as they occurred to her: she was still very hungry, she was sick of riding, and the chocobo smelled, and she didn't think Bavar was all that pretty, rather boring really, and when would they get food? The knight was eager to change the subject. He tried telling her various tales until one about Fort Baunfelz, where she was certain her family waited for her arrival, caught and held her interest.

" ... And they've held it ever since. As for the capital – "

"I've got a brother in the capital," Meira interrupted, "he's a pilot."

"What is his name? I shan't fight by his side, but if by chance we meet I may tell him where to find you," he replied. They were nearing Fort Baunfelz. The countryside here was pregnant with hills, ridges and rocks. The knight kept nudging the chocobo as it dawdled and tried to rear off to the left or right, hesitant to go forward.

"Amos Jr. Fon Rothbauer. He's got _brown_ eyes, but not blonde hair like me. He's got _brown_ hair, like our mum, and – "

A fleet of Archadian airships loomed over Fort Baunfelz. Only pieces of the wall still stood and the crumbled building spilled out through the breaches. The ships no longer attacked; they hovered over it like vultures claiming carrion.

The fort had been taken.

"No ... it's not possible," said Sir Ronsenburg.

"Che! Che! Here, over here!" someone shouted. A group of a dozen or so Landians waved at the knight and Meira. Sir Ronsenburg urged the chocobo toward them. They were mostly men, some in uniform, all worse for wear and a few badly injured; two men held up another whose shirt was blood-stained. Sir Ronsenburg leapt from the chocobo, but Meira didn't move. Her eyes stayed on Fort Baunfelz. A middle-aged man with a torn lip and a deep cut near his hairline approached them.

"Hurry now. Best to leave the chocobo behind, lad, it'll just draw attention to us," the middle-aged man muttered. He reached out for the knight's shoulder, but Sir Ronsenburg shrugged him away.

"No. I'll ride ahead. You and the others will follow. Even on foot the capital is but two days at most through the hills," Sir Ronsenburg said.

"The _capital? _We barely made it out of the capital. I'll not go back that way, not that way." replied a woman who held a small child in her arms. Meira's head jerked toward them.

"What do you mean? What's happened to the capital?" she said.

"Easy, Hannah, easy now," said the middle-age man as he stroked the woman's arm, "no one's going back there."

"I am," said the knight, "if the capital is under attack, I'll defend it with my last."

"You won't even make it there! There are swarms of those Archadian airships. Hundreds of them, boy, hundreds."

"What's happened to the capital?" Meira repeated, as she scrambled off the chocobo.

"And what of _our _ships? What of our soldiers? You flee because you are a coward. I am a knight of – "

"A knight? You're not even a man yet. Don't be a fool. I – "

"What's happened to the capital?" screamed Meira. The middle-age man stared at her.

"It's fallen," he stated, "all of Landis has fallen. It's the Empire's now. We have to get out of here."

"No! I will not abandon my homeland," growled the knight. He marched away. Meira moved to follow him, but the woman with the child grabbed her wrist.

"He may be barely a man, but he's a man nonetheless. She's just a child. We have to bring her with us," she spoke.

"Aye," said the man.

"Bring me? Bring me where? Let go of me – my brother's in the capital!" she shrieked, pulling her wrist from the woman's grasp. Try as she might to get to the knight, she could not sidestep the man who kept blocking her path.

Sir Ronsenburg turned around, his fists on the hilts of his swords. "Let her go," he said.

"I may not be able to stop you, but I won't let you lead this child to her death."

The knight glared at him, unconvinced. "I have promised to protect her," he said.

"Can you protect her and fight the Empire at the same time?"

He looked away.

"Don't leave me," cried Meira.

He glanced at her, his brow furrowed. Hesitantly, he spoke. "I will find your brother ... and tell him you live."

With that, he turned away from her.

"Wait – wait – " she said, but even as she did he was already riding off.

"Alright, alright ... let's keep moving ..."

The middle-aged man picked her up. Held tight in this stranger's arms, Meira cried against his shoulder, clutching the twelve point star, and underneath it, the phoenix frozen in flight.

* * *

A/N: Man, this took a long time to write. A big thanks to Lyralamora for the review! I hope that the violence wasn't too graphic. I don't _think_ it warrants an M rating, personally. I changed the title. I like this one better - hopefully other people do too :).


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**The Other Side of the Mountain**

Though bitter cold, Mt. Bur-Omisace was free of the snow that covered the Paramina Rift. Yet in such temperatures, Halim found snow a comfort. Somehow, it made the cold less oppressive to him; had he ever been in a snowstorm, he might have felt otherwise.

The landscape of Mt. Bur-Omisace was stark, the Kilitian temple cut right into the rock, a masonic masterpiece as unmovable as the mountain it conquered. It was as architecturally impressive, and as richly engraved, as anything to be found in Bhujerba, but to Halim Ondore it had none of the vitality of his home. The place was severe and colourless, with only the occasional shrub here and there to provide any relief. Despite being built on a mountain, there was something sunken about the place. Despair, he thought. Not just the despair of refugees, who had in recent years gathered at Mt. Bur-Omisace, the lost flock of Landis and of other lands destroyed by the Empire. They improved the place, in a way, covering up through sheer numbers the conspicuous lack of pilgrims sojourning on this most sacred of mountains, this last religious light that could be held up against the darkness. Whether or not the improvement was worth the smell – well, that was a question the Marquis had asked himself many times.

"My lord."

"Ah. And so the deliberations must now resume," said Ondore, his back to the speaker. From the balcony he continued to watch the line of refugees waiting for meals in the thoroughfare shrink. This was comforting: they did not seemingly go on forever, then. The cold air cut into his lungs. Fire pits were littered around the refugee encampment. The smoke streamed up the mountain as if trying to escape, trying to be seen. Everything these refugees did was an act of vulnerability, of need, and every action amounted to begging. He tapped his cane against the stone deck of the balcony.

"Neru has distributed the pertinent documents."

"Very well, Ritvic," he said walking from the balcony. "Log the transcript from this morrow's meeting. Dhanyavaad aha."

ooOoo

The negotiations took place in the large atelier of the Kiltian temple. Light from the candelabrums reflected on the unvarnished floor. The ceiling, the floor, and the arches all had arcane symbols and elaborate patterns carved into them. What Ondore hated most about these visits was this room. Used for study and illumination, hymms sat clustered at the tables, ink, paint, or tome in hand. While never watchful, nor loud, Ondore knew that the entire room listened as he and the acolyte delegates debated; the utter silence of not only their mouths, but of the hymms' hands as well, made this quite apparent. For a people of such spiritual conviction, the Kiltia were cunning enough to provide Ondore with an audience quite willing to spread news of his part in this year's performance. Even the religious now play at politics, thought Ondore.

The negotiations had been ongoing for three days now. Besides brief intermissions, they stopped only to eat and sleep, neither of which he could find much enjoyment in. The food was plain and his accommodations modest at best – and one of the servants seemed to be going through his belongings. Each time he retreated to his room, Ondore had found all his documents in one neat stack on the desk.

"And what is wrong with that?" Na'mehnu had enquired when Ondore complained of it the first day.

"Simply that they are not all of one affair and when they are piled as such I must spend an hour sorting them into their proper order again."

But despite Na'mehnu's assurance that the servant had been informed, a single neat stack of documents continued to greet him when he entered the room after dusk. He'd taken to locking his journals in the desk out of suspicion that perhaps Na'mehnu had not told the servant to cease, but was in fact somehow involved in the ordeal. Perhaps the servant searched for information which might undermine his arguments in the negotiation? Or perhaps Na'mehnu hoped the antics would fatigue him into yielding? As if the delegates' continuing efforts to prolong the negotiations were not enough. At this rate, he would have to send Ritvic back to Bhujerba. Maybe Neru as well.

Still, he would not crack, no matter how hard they pressed him from all sides.

The delegates, twelve acolytes of seniority and experience, were already seated. They murmured softly amongst themselves, presently ignoring the documents placed on the table in front of each of them. Neru stood behind Ondore's chair while Na'mehnu sat across from Ondore. Na'mehnu was an elderly nu mou with a face wrinkled as a raisin. In previous years, they had reached new peaks of exasperation together and had now developed something of a rapport.

"I hope this works," Ondore whispered as he sat down, "or I'll have no choice but to name you as my successor while I live out the rest of my days here on this mountain." He rested his cane against the table.

Na'mehnu waved a slow and stubby paw at the acolyte to his left in front of whom lay the record book.

"Let it be written, in six-ninety-five, part twelve of the renegotiations for Bhujerba's aid to the Light of Kiltia," said Na'mehnu.

"It is so written," replied the acolyte still scribbling on the page.

"Then let us proceed," he said, though for the moment he did not. Na'mehnu touched the papers in front of him, pausing for what seemed over a minute to Ondore, who speculated as to whether he himself was being addressed.

"Marquis Ondore," Na'mehnu began, "you've new documents you wish to present. Let it be written, proceeding as follows, documents twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight – "

Each word was weighed down with a lengthy pause before the next followed. Ondore rested his elbows on the table, hands clasped together and fingers interlocked. Let's get on with it, he thought.

" – thirty-two, and thirty-three pertaining to part twelve of the renegotiations for Bhujerba's aid to the Light of Kiltia."

"It is so written."

Ondore rose.

Rhetoric, negotiation, persuasion – all these came easily to Halim Ondore who had been taught, starting at a young age, everything from etiquette to political intrigue. He had been taught how to feed one's people and how to lie to them. Both honesty and deceit passed from his lips interchangeably, alike in sincerity and authority. His immediate strategy was to bombard these delegates with economics. Statistics, graphs, and balances were used to confused, not to convince, so that it became his prerogative alone to dictate what all the numbers meant. He knew small victories when he caught glances exchanged between delegates while continuously speaking about production and distribution, employment, the domestic income. He made sure, at any opportunity, to stress the inflexibility of Bhujerba's economic methods; they had worked since the Galtean Alliance, after all, and would not be modified simply to accommodate foreign refugees.

"... And, due to the strategic closing of exhausted mines, used with success since the rise of House Ondore, to facilitate the economic sustainability of our invaluable resource, Bhujerba's miners are oft' discharged temporarily. As well, in the event that the paling fails, even those mines active must be temporarily closed. The exploitation of our most valuable export ... It is a process that must be approached like a delicate ecosystem, where the introduction of even one new factor could prove deadly. We must agree that to increase the workforce would lead to over-mining and, from there, to disaster." He cleared his throat, but continued before interruption could occur. "The situation with the engines and machina guild was concluded in the last negotiations, but to reiterate, it is a nonviable employment opportunity in this case of immigration. Such employment requires highly skilled workers, which none of these refugees are, and due to Clause Four of the Act of 124 O.V. must favour both residents and immigrants of Moogle descent." Ondore's shadow ran almost the length of the table now. The last rays of daylight penetrated the corner of his eye. "The unfortunate reality is the impossibility of Bhujerba welcoming the burden of what the Light of Kiltia requests. If twenty percent of these refugees were allowed all at once into Bhujerba the result would be dire. They would be beggars – and beggars without the charity of the Light of Kiltia, at that."

"And what of an incremental introduction?"

"The result would be the same," said Ondore. "There is no work, nor can we foresee any in the near future, to match such an increase in workers."

Their answer to this was a recess until dawn.

ooOoo

Exhausted, and already tugging his cravat loose, Ondore made his way as best he could up the stairs. He was not surprised the delegates had no reply for it was their custom, in past negotiations, to save questions, counter-arguments, and counter-proposals until the next day so as not to give him the advantage of a night's formulated response. He fully expected negotiations to last for as long as courtesy and tact required – and both required a great deal more time than such things as prudence and candour might in this circumstance (if only _no _was sufficient.) What Halim Ondore had not expected, upon reaching the door of his room ajar, was the young girl he found pilfering through his documents. Oblivious to his presence, she hurried through loose papers and unrolled scrolls, pausing now and again as if having found what she searched for.

Ondore entered the room and shut the door behind him.

"Some advice: closing the door behind you may prove key to your success in future endeavours," Ondore said.

He walked towards her. She looked a mere girl, small and slight, with the look of a sick doe; her hair shorn to her head and protruding dark eyes looking straight into his with something like defiance. Desperation? But no fear. Too much desperation then, thought Ondore. He assumed she was a servant, the very same of whom he had complained. Yet there was something of the refugee in her – that desperateness – a homelessness about her and now that he was closer, only the desk between them, he could see that she was scarred enough to have seen war. There could be no doubt: scarred inside and out.

"Shall I bother with an introduction? No doubt you are rather acquainted with my chirography. You may know my calibre better than any living soul, if you attempted the journals and can read Bhujerban ... which I doubt."

She did not reply, so he spoke plainly. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.

To this she responded right away.

"Aye," she said, "you're one of those nobles who likes to come here and tell us we're not welcome in yours nor any other." She spoke in the common tongue with an accent he took to be Landisan, but her diction was poor and coarse.

"And you are the servant who has been thieving about my study these last few days."

"I've stolen nothing."

"You have stolen knowledge. That is everything."

The young girl tried to walk past him, but Ondore shot his cane up, barring her way.

"What is it Na'mehnu has you searching for?" he enquired.

"Are all politicians so cynical as to think the religious cunning and two-faced?"

"Only the wise ones. Very good, you do know who I am. And what am I to think when I find a spy rummaging through my desk?"

"I'm no spy," the girl spat out. She moved back behind the desk so that it was between them once more. Ondore lowered his cane and fixed it in front of him so that his hands rested upon it. She folded her arms, her dark eyes looking up at him warily.

"Do these accommodations meet your standards?" she asked casually. "Are the floors clean enough? The windows without dirt? The desk without dust? All this I did myself before returning to _my_ home – a squalid tent that can hardly stand the wind raging above it nor the rocks jutting out from underneath. How is the bed? Are the pillows puffed enough? Is it warm enough for your blue blood?"

Ondore made no reply.

"Well? Is it?"

"Hm." He cleared his throat and lowered his eyes to the floor. "They are very clean, the floors." He looked up now, looked past her to the darkness outside. The wind was strong tonight. It beat against the windows and they sounded out like drums. "The windows are sufficient. The desk is fine, though the chair – it is not comfortable. But the bed ... "

"Not to your liking."

"I am afraid not."

She nodded, chewing down on her lip where a small sneer had formed.

"They said there were jobs, you know. In the mines." the girl said.

Ondore walked away from her and slumped down on the bed so he could not see her. So, the delegates' hopes for the new negotiations had travelled to the refugees. He had thought them more capable of discretion. Yet of course this was another attempt to sway him. Perhaps they hoped small children would flock to him, their large eyes somehow forcing his charity. He supposed she was close enough to that. But Halim Ondore knew what it meant to be Marquis. Refugees' needs meant nothing when compared to the needs of his own people and Bhujerba's economy was too deep in Archadian pockets to risk anything as provocative as asylum or immigration of those who had nothing, nothing at all but cause to hate the Empire, those who might foster that hate into something like a rebellion if given the time and resources to start one. One on Bhujerban soil – he could not allow it.

"If you would leave, I would rest," said Ondore. He looked to the door and waited to see her approach it. "I will not tell your employers of – what shall we call it – your political enthusiasm over these last few nights, yes?" There – footsteps, at last. He closed his eyes.

"They're not my employers," she said opening the door, "for I earn naught."

Then the door was shut.

ooOoo

It would be an exaggeration to say that after such an incident the Marquis was unable to sleep, for he slept quite well that night, despite the predicament of an inadequate bed. And it would be an exaggeration to say that these events affected his mind, that they in any way inhibited his work or duty. His entries were promptly written and finished in the morning and negotiations continued in the usual vein over the next few days. Truly, Halim Ondore's time was spent without incident or interest except his inclination, the day after the strange girl's visit, to open the balcony doors for fresh air and then soon after to close them again, realizing the chill to be more than he anticipated.

He knew without question that this girl was no concern of his. When a servant, a silent older man with a square face, brought Ondore a fresh shirt and towel, he knew he thought not on this girl; when buttoning up his cuffs, skin flushed from bathing, he knew this still. And when another servant, with a thatch of blonde hair, brought in his breakfast tray and he wondered, briefly, if that could be her and, when it became apparent it was not, he knew that what he felt was nothing more or less than relief. Truly, all the morning through washing, dressing, and sitting down to his breakfast of fruits and spiced cheeses, and even when he allowed himself to indulged, so early still in the day, in a glass of Archadian brandy, Ondore felt no curiosity, no pang of guilt, nothing towards the young girl whose childhood had been interrupted and irrevocably ended by war, whose hope had been extinguished, whose rage could only prove a danger to herself and a danger to others.

His curiosity and conscience had long ago ceased crying out to be satiated – and that was fine.

This was not a problem. There was no problem, not for the Marquis of Bhujerba.

ooOoo

The delegates' final recourse was to cut their request in half, and upon Ondore's reassertion that more miners were not needed, to suggest a variety of appointments meant to spread the refugees across the workforce – porters, servants, chambermaids? Merchant and builders? Farmers?

"We have already a small but steady stream of migrant workers and residents to fill such positions – and our agriculture, as was made clear in prior negotiations, is in decline. Bhujerba is a country sought after by those more qualified than a population of unskilled refugees. A wave of immigration is undesirable at this point in time and economically, politically, socially – it would be dangerous."

"A wave?" responded one of the delegates, "A small percentage – "

But Ondore interrupted. "No percentage is small enough in this case." Silence met this statement. Courtesy and tact had been extended long enough. Now was the time for candour. Ondore collected the papers in front of him, handed them to Neru, and sat back down, hands folded in front of him. "Bhujerba will continue to provide financial aid."

"These people do not need charity," spluttered one of the younger and braver hume delegates.

"Very good, we shall withdraw our aid?" replied Ondore. He heard a ripple of shock and discontent spread across the room, but he kept his eyes on his hands.

Na'mehnu was the first to speak. "Is there no compromise that can be reached?" he asked.

"The compromise has already been reached," replied Ondore, polite but firm and the delegates knew now what he had known since he arrived: there would be no more bargaining. Aid would be given on his terms or no aid would be given at all.

The hume delegate, who had so bravely spoken out of turn, left the room before the negotiations formerly concluded. The sound of pen on page gradually enveloped the room again as hymms returned to their tasks. Everything would go on as before.

"Part fifteen of the negotiations for Bhujerba's aide to the Light of Kiltia concludes."

"So it is written."

"And let it also be written that the negotiations of this year of six-ninety-five Old Valendian conclude. This council concedes to an increase of Bhujerban aid, incremental over the next five years, to be followed by an annual decrease. This is the most honourable agreement between the Light of Kiltia and House Ondore."

"So it is written."

"May the light of Kiltia shine upon you."

"And upon you," answered Ondore.

The remaining delegates began to depart. Ondore walked up to Na'mehnu who was still seated.

"May I have a word in private, bhadra?"

"Of course, Marquis," replied Na'mehnu. They walked out to the balcony. The sky was clear this morning, the air not as biting as it had been the last several days.

"My room has not been attended to in some days," said Ondore. Na'mehnu looked up at the Marquis and blinking his small watery eyes.

"I am surprised and sorry to hear that. I will speak to the servant."

"May I enquire after her?"

"The servant? She is a Landisan refugee. Unusual though. Few orphans managed to escape the country, especially those as young as she. She arrived kinless with a group of others she seemed unfamiliar with. They themselves departed not long after."

"How long has she worked in the temple?" asked Ondore.

"Several years. As I said, she was very young and alone. We have tried to provide her with some education and in exchange she fulfills many of the tasks assigned to new apprentices."

"But she does not sleep in the temple?"

Na'mehnu now eyed him. Ondore felt certain the nu mou was suspicious of such a question, but would not be discourteous enough to ask Ondore how he arrived at his conclusion.

"No," Na'mehnu replied hesitantly. "Since she has not devoted herself, nor is she a guest, she cannot stay in the temple. We hope she might someday be blessed by the Gran Kiltia Anastasis and give her life to the Light of Kiltia."

"Are you not aware she is a thief?"

From the look on Na'mehnu's face, he was not – and so she had been telling the truth, Ondore realized. "There was an incident."

"I see.." said Na'mehnu. Neither spoke for some time. When they finally did, they spoke of the unexpected fair weather of the morning, of anecdotes (a Seeq merchant had arrived with a group of dancing Moogles,) and of the various events of the world over which they could claim little power and thus felt little in the way of guilt.

Thievery was forbidden by the Light of Kiltia and to steal within the temple was close to sacrilege. Both knew what Ondore's confidence meant: the girl would not be allowed to remain on Mt. Bur-Omisace.

ooOoo

The day grew late. By late afternoon, the brilliance of the morning was dulled by heavy grey clouds that burst torrents down upon Mt. Bur-Omisace. Ondore's small private airship awaited. As he walked through the thoroughfare, Neru holding up an umbrella to cover the Marquis, it might have been mistaken for a day many years ago. Most of the refugees were hidden in tents, waiting for the rain to stop. Only the few who huddled under shelter near the road broke the illusion that this was Mt. Bur-Omisace before the wars, as it once was. But there was no before the wars, Ondore reminded himself. War broke out, it always had, and even the greatest times of peace were interrupted by it. Yet was this moment of turmoil the same as any other? House Ondore's duty had always been to keep Bhujerba still no matter how the tempests of war tried to sway her, but in Halim Ondore's lifetime nations did not clash and battle and finally make peace. Instead, two empires now consumed. On the continent of Valendian, Archades was set on accumulating territory until every movement of every nation was under its predatory gaze. How long until it reached its talons down on Bhujerba? On every place?

Ondore and Neru reached the path leading to the Paramina Rift, where travelling merchants sometimes liked to sell their wares. There were no merchants today. Temporarily departed, they left behind their make-shift stalls, which the wind and rain threatened to tear apart. There was one figure, however, dressed in a dark cloak: the young servant girl, who stood there with naught but a small knapsack.

"It seems you stalk my every move," Ondore commented as they approached her. He motioned to Neru, who moved so that the umbrella covered both the servant girl and the Marquis.

"And it seems you're a liar," she said.

"All politicians lie," he retorted. "Everyone lies. You lied to those who cared for you, who gave you shelter, and whose only requirement was that you follow their moral code, which you did not."

"And now I'm to leave Mt. Bur-Omisace, with no way to get to the nowhere I'm headed, all because of you and your lie."

"Kastam, but it was your lie, not mine, through which this came about."

Ondore nodded at Neru and they walked on, down the sloped trail, but the servant girl followed and kept pace.

"You care not that I've nowhere to go, no gil, no more than what's on my back."

"Untrue," he replied, though his attention was on choosing his steps carefully down the wet and poorly cobbled path. "It is unfortunate what has befallen you."

He came to a halt and she with him. There was that look again: her brown eyes, full of need and the certainty of her right to have that need acknowledged and fulfilled. There was a word for that, thought Ondore . Naivety. Her face was flushed from the cold. With hardly a gesture from Ondore, Neru once again moved so the umbrella was, once again, above the two humes.

"I think," said Ondore, "it is not too bold to say that all that has befallen you, since the fall of Landis, has been unfortunate." Now that she was again undercover, the young girl wiped her face furiously, so that her nose and chin no longer dripped rainwater. For a moment, as he watched her groom herself like a small, tamed creature – for a moment, what? He could not stand there sheltering her forever, as if the worst the world had to offer was rainfall and all one had to do was stand still and undercover to keep from getting wet. No, that was not the world and he could not allow some chord inside him to be tugged and made to sing out in some sad, minor key. He had an airship to catch. "Good day and good luck to you, bhadra." Ondore turned from her, Neru not one step behind.

"Please," she said, still following them. "Please, wait." Do not stop, Ondore told himself. Stopping would only encourage her. Give one gil and you'd be asked for two. Better to pretend not to hear, to concentrate only on the sound of one's steps (one-two three, one-two three) and on the path ahead.

But still the girl followed, sniffling in the rain and trailing behind them, until finally she dashed out in front of Halim Ondore, who halted hastily, mere inches from her. He felt close to losing his composure. The back and forth, the faltering of speech, of movement, and of emotion that was occurring and had been, not only these last few minutes, but every moment he had spent with this girl – it was enough to vex the Grand Kiltia himself! He felt a great urge to simply push her out of his way.

"You return now to Bhujerba, right?" she blurted out. "Aye, of course, of course, you are the Marquis, how long could you're people be without you? Well, if you return, or if not – from here through where ever you journey – if Bhujerba – I only ask for passage – from there I will go –"

"Where?" said Ondore, interrupting her ramblings. "Perhaps from Bhujerba you could fly into the Empire's hands? Do not be surprise when they presume you a pest and act accordingly."

"What does it matter to you? I'll leave Bhujerba, I swear it. I swear on – on – "

"Your tattered cloak?"

"Will you give me passage or not?"

"I will do no such thing."

Ondore walked around her, but the girl, quick as lightening, snatched his cane. Then, with one claw, Neru grabbed the girl by her shoulder.

"Ah!"

"Let her go," said Ondore, regaining his composure. "Neru. Let her go."

Neru stepped back from the girl, and she from him. She hugged the cane greedily in her arms.

"Child, this move of desperation is foolish." Ondore took a step toward her. "Give me my cane."

In a mocking tone, she replied, "No."

"Look here – "

"No, you look here. Shall we talk more of desperation? How perhaps, you've been so _desperate_ to leave here, so _desperate_ to end negotiations, so _desperate_ to keep each refugee from your precious Bhujerba ... so desperate that, though most nights you thumbed each journal, each scroll, each document, perhaps there was one night where you held those documents, those documents of such importance, and simply _assumed_ all was accounted for? And now, rushing to leave, I wonder if you packed without making sure all was in its proper place?" She shrugged her shoulders. "Who knows what you could be missing."

Ondore merely scoffed. "No thief indeed. And you expect, I suppose, that I'll not bother searching your person – which you may proceed with, Neru, starting with the young woman's bag – and that I'll take such a threat at its utterance?"

Neru took the bag from the young girl, but the only items found within were of little relevance: a spare set of clothes, a small pendant in the shape of a twelve pointed star.

"You should check my pockets for good measure."

Neru did, and even padded the girl down, but still found nothing.

"A strange document indeed," said Ondore, "capable of fading in and out of existence. Perhaps that is how I lost it in the first place."

"It exists," she insisted, "but you'll never find it without me – and for all you know, I've made arrangements to have it sent – maybe – maybe to the Rozarrians, hmm? Or maybe – "

"Oh by the Gods – Neru, return the bag to the young woman, we've an airship to catch and no more time for this. Voyage with us if such an offer will silence you, but attempt to stay in Bhujerba and I'll arrest you and ship you off to the Archadians without any qualms. And the cane, Neru, if you will."

ooOoo

They sat across from each other on the airship. She looked out the window at the sea beneath them while his eyes stayed on the page in front of him, his mind on his work, for the most part. Small things he noticed. That she had perhaps worked in the sun at one time, was one. Freckles across her cheeks and nose, and trailing down her arms, spoke to this, pale and almost undetectable like pebbles under a frozen, opaque stream. He noticed, too, how she sat: knees together, hands clamped down on them, partially concealing a knot of scar tissue on her right knee that ran all the way down her leg, frayed like a rope, raised and white, down to her ankle.

"An old injury?" he asked.

"What?"

"Your leg."

"Oh. Aye."

"I know something of such injuries," said Ondore, gesturing to his cane.

"This is a war injury – what would you know of such things."

"If you are to insult me, might I suggest that you not forget that my station is above yours."

"What would you know of such things, _sir_."

"'My lord' or 'lordship' is proper, Miss fon Rothbauer, being that I am not a merchant or a knight or anything for which that address would be appropriate."

She said nothing.

"And I do know something of such injuries."

The girl crossed her legs, but did not reply.

* * *

A/N: Decided to start this fic up again after putting it on hiatus while I was travelling. This chapter took forever to write and, right now, I pretty much never want to see it again lol. The next chapter will be a more reasonable 3000ish words, I think. Please R&R :)


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**The Skycity of Bhujerba**

The Marquis had insisted she retire to one of the private rooms. The journey would be long, he said, and rest was needed, but Meira had little doubt he'd only wanted to be rid of her presence and that was fine with her: she had no desire for his company either. All he did was sit with his books and papers, writing and occasionally tapping his cane against the floor, which irritated Meira though, of course, she said nothing of it. He made her nervous, too. What if he asked his strange attendant to search her again? In the Marquis' presence, the idea would not leave her mind and unconsciously it caused her to keep petting down her cloak with her hands.

In the private room, fresh sheets had been laid out on the cot and beside it a basin and washcloth rested on the small nightstand. The basin was made of clay and had rigid spirals patterned in bands around its base and neck. It was decorated with one luminous blue stone that made it appear exotic and expensive to Meira despite its simplicity. Eager to make use of the basin before the water in it cooled, Meira removed her dress and shift and right away soaked the washcloth. She scrubbed until every inch of her skin glowed an angry pink. By the time she had finished, the water was cool and murky.

Having only the one, she put the shift on again, happy enough to have clean skin if not clean undergarments. Sitting on the cot, Meira untied her sack. She removed a tunic, cleaner and less shabby than the dress, and slipped it over her shift. Its cut revealed the phoenix pendant she'd kept tucked away under her dress. It wasn't a good idea in the camp to have things of value in plain sight, even on one's person. There was an expectation of practicality, that items of no day-to-day use should be sold, so that the basics could be provided for. She refused to be practical and sell it, but still there was always the chance that another refugee would snatch it from her. So, Meira had the tendency to hide the necklace under her dress.

She hid the brooch, too, but in the sack.

Her brooch, that same brooch she'd been given so many years ago. The cloak, which for months after had still smelled of Landis, still smelled of that boy, the knight, had long ago been worn down to rags, but the brooch survived. For awhile Meira kept it on the same chain that held the phoenix pendant, but the size of the twelve-point star eclipsed that of the small phoenix, and she had fears that its weight would break the delicate chain. She'd searched for some other chain and managed to find one, a heavier thick chain, but it was so long that, still a young girl, the necklace hung down to her navel. So, she'd kept it hidden in her bag. She took it out now and put it around her neck, surprised at how much smaller it seemed, though it was still heavy. With nothing else to do, Meira sat and waited.

ooOoo

"Svagatam," a woman in front of her said as they exited the aerodome and entered the Skycity of Bhujerba. Meira said nothing, only glanced at her and walked past, not knowing what the foreign word meant. The Skycity of Bhujerba: islands floating in the air, lush with urbanism and forests that tried to tricked one into thinking one must still be on the ground, but where Meira stood she could see the rocky bottoms of Bhujerba's landmasses. The Marquis and his attendants were ahead of her now, but she paid them no heed, dawdling across the bridge from the aerodome and chancing a look off the edge. Below her, thick clouds sailed by and far below that – green. Land that looked so insignificant as to be mere blades of grass underfoot. A roar came from above and Meira glanced up in time to see an enormous airship passing by so close she could feel the bridge vibrate below her. Now she felt like the blade of grass underneath some huge and lumbering monster, while smaller ships whizzed to and fro like giant insects. The Marquis and his attendants were no longer in sight, but she cared not.

The skycity was a strange place indeed, stranger than Meira could have imagined. The sensation of land firmly underfoot and yet, everywhere she looked, confirmation that she was more like an ant on a rock thrown in the air, a rock that had yet to come down, than like a traveller in a new land. But if one could swallow the concept of a floating continent, then the strangest sight of all were the giant sheets of blue crystal that sprouted from the earth of the skycity.

From the bridge she walked through an archway and into a bustling, brightly coloured crowd. All around her the chiming language of Bhujerba was spoken not just by humes, but by moogles, seeqs, and bangaas. The city was truly cosmopolitan. Here and there she heard snippets of Galtean speech, the common tongue the Kiltians had taught her to be fluent in. Nowhere did she hear her native tongue, but she had not expected to.

ooOoo

No, it was Bhujerba that was the blade of grass. A blade of grass floating in an infinite blue sea. The air here was fresh – so fresh she was finding it a little difficult to catch her breath.

The dizzying, invisible dances of Bhujerba's breezes counteracted perfectly the warm rays of the sun, which reached Bhujerba without barrier, so that sitting outside was comfortable. Having, at present, nothing else to do, Meira sat on the steps of Lhusu Square and mused on this simple pleasure. With the entrance to the Lhusu Mines right in front of her, Meira quickly found she was not sorry at all to have been denied that particular employment opportunity. She watched the miners come and go, coughing, scraping dirt off themselves, and flicking sweat. Not that she was afraid of hard work, she told herself. She was a farmer's daughter and had done her fair share in the fields. Now scrubbing floors and cleaning chamber pots wasn't ideal work, but it seemed to Meira unlikely to come with the same risks as digging holes through the sky. And from eavesdropping on some of the miners (who seemed to complain about the idea of going to work as much as the idea of being temporarily laid off) it sounded like the work came with risks of attack by Steelings and other fiends, too. Besides, what if one of the mines collapsed ... rubble and rock raining down on you, buried alive, the world blasted around you ... . Suddenly, Meira found herself on her feet and walking away from the square, her heart beating fast.

She calmed herself walking through the quieter streets of Bhujerba. What was she doing here? She'd need something to eat. Not now, since she'd been served the delicate meals of an aristocrat on the flight, but soon. Soon she'd need to eat. Soon she'd need to find a place to sleep, too. But how soon until the Marquis' guards decided she'd overstayed her welcome? She pondered on whether she could get away with sleeping in some alley. No doubt at night it got cold with the sun gone to sleep and the wind still playing through the streets. And he would know soon enough. Things had not gone according to plan. They'd not taken her seriously. Meira realized she should have asked for money for how was she to afford the voyage from here to Dalmasca – or anywhere, for that matter?

She stopped walking. Hidden in a narrow alley, she leaned against a brick wall, her sack dropped to the ground and hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath. What if they arrested her? How could she fix this now? Once they found out – perhaps, if she gave them the –

"Meira fon Rothbauer?"

A tall figure stood at the foot of the alley, blocking out the sun behind him. He was one of the attendants the Marquis had had with him. Like the feline creature who had grabbed her, but this one had dark grey fur instead of golden, and his voice was raspier.

"Of Mt. Bur-Omisace," he said. "The servant girl?"

They'd come for her. They'd found her out. Stay calm, she told herself, and keep the upper hand. She then proceeded to stand up, take two steps towards him, keel over, and vomit.

"The air. More difficult for some than others, though you are from a high mountain .. should be not so difficult as this," he said, unfazed by her state. "Perhaps you are a very weak hume," he added thoughtfully. "Upset is unhelpful. Staying calm is helpful. And breathing – deeper than that. And slower. And hurry."

After some time, which he spent hovering over her as Meira took deep breaths and threw up twice more, it finally seemed over with.

"There's naught more that can come out, I think," she said meekly.

"Good," he said, checking a pocket watch.

Meira picked up her sack with one arm and wipe her brow with the other.

"I'm terribly dizzy," she said.

"Are you breathing?"

"What do you think?"

"Breath more."

"I've only two lungs. How much more can I breath?" Meira replied irritably, though she attempted what he suggested.

"I hope you are not thinking of making run," he growled.

"What? Of what?"

"Of making run. Run away."

"Of – of making a run for it, you mean?" she asked. She looked to the other end of the alley where a few Bhujerbans trailed down the adjacent street. Not enough to lose herself in a crowd, she thought. "No, of course not ... "

"Good. I do not like chase."

"I don't think I'm in any condition, even if I've a mind for it. Are you – stop growling at me. I said _if_."

Meira reached a hand out and he obliged, his claw engulfing her hand and wrist as he pulled her up roughly.

They walked out from the alley into the open street. A group of moogles who were constructing what appeared to be a small shop paused to watch as Meira walked by with the Marquis' attendant, who had a firm hold on her arm. Meira did not have to ask where they were headed. She was quite certain of where, or at least to whom.

"Are you some kind of viera?" she enquired.

"No. I am rev."

"Are you from Bhujerba?"

"No."

"Where are you from then?"

"West."

The west. The land of House Rozarria. A long way from home, she thought, not unlike herself, but she said neither this nor anything more to her standoffish companion, though she derided him silently by carrying on a monosyllabic conservation in her head.

ooOoo

The Marquis' abode was built high on Bhujerba, towers half hidden by the huge blue crystals that rose up around the estate, encasing it like petals encasing stamens. It was like a blue flower blossomed to reveal the aristocracy. Meira had seen nothing like it anywhere.

But once inside, Meira found that this blossom was full of busy, busy bees. Servants, attendants, and officials all marched throughout, conversing, dictating, cleaning, or just seemingly rushing off in a hurry to get to or from some unseen room. To Meira, it all felt chaotic, hectic, and the only thing keeping her from being trampled or colliding into someone was the rev who manoeuvred easily through the place, who seemed already to know quite well the difference between those for whom he should move and those who would move for him.

"'Tis a busy sort of place, isn't it?" muttered Meira.

"Here, the fate of Bhujerba is decided. Here, its people spoken for," replied the rev. "Not so busy at night. Less busy when the week has ended."

They turned a corner and went up a wide staircase. A life-sized marble statue of a man stood at the top.

"Who is that supposed to be?" asked Meira. The rev paused in his march and she was glad for it.

"Marquis Ondore," he said.

"... No, it's not."

The figure wore long robes with a high collar that reached up to his chin. He rested one hand on his hip under the robes and the other he held out, palm turned upwards with the index finger raised as if he were pontificating. His hair was long and pulled back.

"The hair, the face, it's all wrong," she said.

True, there was a resemblance. But the Marquis' chin was more square, his nose stronger and straighter, and his face younger, though both faces shared a sternness and a particular breed of cold self-assurance.

"It is Marquis Ondore I. Come," said the rev, pulling her along.

They walked further on until they came to a grand door. The rev opened the door and moved behind Meira. He grasped both her shoulders with his claws. Still holding on to her, he pushed her into the room. At first she could see very little. Though not dark, the light was dimmer than the rest of the estate. The stone back of a giant beast blocked her view. As they walked past, Meira saw that the stone statue was that of a seated griffin. Directly across from it, the Marquis of Bhujerba sat in an imposing chair behind a large triangular desk, writing. He did not look up.

"I have the girl. She was sick," said the rev, eyeing her. "She is not so sick now."

"Dhanyavaad aha. Please take this scroll, Ritvic."

He walked over to the Marquis leaving Meira free from his grasp and free to contemplate her position. There was no escaping now, but if he'd wanted her arrested he could have done that without ever having her within his sights again. There was a bargain to be made, a deal to be brokered.

"Take this to Neru. Wait. There is another task," said the Marquis. He spoke briefly to the rev in Bhujerban then in the common tongue added, "return and wait outside until this affair is concluded."

The rev, Ritvic, bowed to the Marquis and crossed the room, passing Meira whom he once again eyed and who eyed him right back. He shut the door quietly behind him.

"Miss Rothbauer, you grace me with your presence," said the Marquis formally. He grabbed his cane and pushed himself up from his seat. "Please, sit."

Meira seated herself on a small chair across from him. She clutched the bag in her lap, feeling pinned between his gaze in front of her and the griffin's at her back. At least it was only stone.

"You have been unwell?"

"Aye. I'm alright now, just a little weak."

"You've a pale look to you," he murmured. The Marquis opened a drawer of the desk and pulled out a small round bottle and two glasses. He filled each and pushed one glass halfway across the desk. Meira leaned over the desk to reach for it. The brooch freed itself from her tunic, clinking softly against the phoenix pendant as they both dangled. She grabbed the glass and sat back down, stuffing the broach under her tunic before sipping at the drink. The stuff stung her throat, but had a sweetish aftertaste like honey that had somehow fermented. Honey full of bees, just like this place, though it was quiet here in the room.

"Perhaps we should toast," suggested the Marquis.

Toast? Was that usual on such occasions? Had she been rude to sip already?

"Stealing from a marquis is a feat worthy of commemoration," he added.

She felt a lump form in her throat, but resisted the urge to swallow. She had to retain the upper hand, retain her composure. She hoped there were no traces of the day's events left on her face.

The Marquis raised his glass, but Meira left hers where it was and hid her hands in her lap, fiddling with the sack. He drained his glass and then calmly began pouring himself another.

"Quite reticent now, for a young girl with a taste for sneering and thievery."

He sat sipping his drink, utterly composed and unreadable, and watched her. Meira had the horrible feeling that for him she was like an open book with pages to be perused at his leisure. He was a ruler, was he not? What hope had she of bluffing him? She reached for her drink and tried to seem nonchalant as she gulped some of it down.

The Marquis lower his. Propping his elbows on the desk, he interlocked his hands and let out a soft sigh.

"The last man who stole from me is fastened head to foot in irons, rotting in a cell the existence of which you'd sooner deny to the Emperor himself than experience," he commented casually.

Now Meira swallowed hard, but kept in mind the advice her father would whisper to her when he'd play cards with the other men in the town tavern: ne'er give up a good hand unless you've another up your sleeve. Shady advice considering her father's poor skill at cards, but it'd gotten Meira this far.

"I'll wager you got back what that man took. And I'll wager too, that if I took something, you need that back all the same, else you'd already have me in chains. So you'll nothing 'til I've had mine."

She finished what was in her glass and pushed it towards him.

"And what is it you desire?" he asked, reaching for her glass. He refilled it and pushed it back.

"A good pair of shoes, four hundred gil, and pardon – and your word on the pardon, in writing," she blurted out. Her face felt hot. She couldn't tell if she was excited or ashamed to be extorting.

"My word in writing," he repeated with a slight smile as his hands disappeared into a drawer and reappeared with parchment and quill. Meira watched him as she drank from her glass. His quill danced across the page, cutting into the parchment, elegant and precise as a swordsman with his blade. "I cannot give you four hundred gil, of course," he commented as he passed her the parchment.

"What – why?" she cried. "You must have it."

"I can pardon you, clothe you, I could even hire you if I had half a mind to, but to give you coin now would be blackmail for your part and bribery for mine. And I've my position to consider, you understand."

"No, not one bit. It doesn't matter what it is – it's still – " blackmail, she thought, "it's still what it is."

"We differ on this point, I see."

"I need the gil," she said sourly, finishing off her drink.

"Why?" He enquired, snatching up her glass.

"Because – how else am I to afford a ticket?"

"To Dalmasca? Or Nabradia?"

"Aye," she scoffed and folded her arms. "Obviously."

Meira watched with suspicious as the Marquis, instead of passing her drink, rose from his seat and walked to her. He sat on the edge of the desk beside her and handed her the glass.

"Why go at all?"

"I don't want to stay in Bhujerba anymore than you want me to," she replied with her lips already on the glass. "In fact," she added, setting it down hard on the table, "I hate Bhujerba and want to leave the more so."

The Marquis chuckled and took her glass from the table. "Well, then." He drained it. "Since you are in such a hurry to leave, I think it is time you return to me what was not yours to take."

"I still need that gil."

"Then why not sell the shoes," the Marquis suggested.

"The shoes won't give me enough even for the ticket!" Meira protested.

"Then why not sell the jewellery." He leaned in towards her. "Why not sell that jewellery, hm? Why not have sold it long ago?"

"I – can't."

"Why."

Was her face still hot? She couldn't tell. Her head felt full of honey and her thoughts couldn't swim through the stuff.

"Where are the papers, hm? In here?" He began rolling up one of her sleeves.

Meira yanked her sleeve away and hugged her bag.

"I see." He pulled the bag from her stubborn arms and set it on the table.

"You've made me drunk." The stupidity of it made her want to hit herself.

"A courteous host offers his guests only his best refreshments. But I suppose you've never had Bhujerban Madhu before? It's affect can be swift and overbearing for the novice."

"It isn't fair."

"We are far past speaking on fairness, I think," he murmured as he emptied the sack of its only items: her ragged dress and cloak. "Hm. Where." He scrutinized her form. He got off the desk and knelt in front of Meira.

"They're long gone! I've hidden them with a trader and he won't send them 'til I've sent him word and I won't until I'm off this floating rock – eh!" Meira exclaimed as she slapped the Marquis' hand away from her boot. The Marquis gave her such a look that Meira immediately regretted doing so. It was a look she had seen, on occasion, carved in her father's face when she or Amos had taken some mischief too far and the consequence meant the belt. On the Marquis though, the look quickly dissolved into mere sternness.

"You're lucky I am a gentleman. Now, let us imagine, for a moment," he said, pulling himself up with some difficulty, so that he was standing over Meira, "that I, the gracious host, am not hunting for stolen property, but instead am humbly insisting on my welcomed guest's comfort."

Meira reached down and pulled the boot off. She shook it out. Nothing.

"I assure you, you are utterly safe in your inebriation," the Marquis said as he watched Meira pull off the second boot. A few pebbles fell from it.

"I'll have you stripped bare unless you assure me there is no point to it."

"I thought I was safe."

"The state of nakedness is no danger in and of itself. But it is quite avoidable in this case."

Biting her lip, Meira grabbed her cloak from the table. She turned it inside out and found the corner where the stitching of the lining was poorest and the thread a different colour. With both her hands she yanked and the lining tore from the cloak. Several papers slipped out and fell to the floor. The Marquis picked them up and examined them. He held up a page in front of her.

"How clever. Did you know these concerned Landis when you stole them?"

"I didn't _steal _them. I saw the crest of House Solidor and this, " she pointed to another crest on the page, " I recognized for you have it on your person. But I couldn't read the writing. I only meant to _borrow_ them, I thought maybe the temple library might have texts on Bhujerban, but you had me dismissed, so how was I to return them – "

"Without admitting further guilt. And so you saw an opportunity. Or rather, created one." He gave her a most curious look, his brow furrowed above his pale eyes which looked into hers frankly.

"But now I've this," Meira said, waving her pardon. "So all's – all's forgiven."

The Marquis tucked the papers in his overcoat. "Though you are not taken with Bhujerba, I'm sure you'll agree it would be wiser for you to sleep here than on her streets, especially in your state."

Meira remained silent, feeling uneasy that her comment was ignored. Grabbing his cane from his chair, the Marquis walked to the window, his back turned to her. His reflection in the glass reminded her of the marble statue in the hall. Like it, the Marquis looked not at her but at some distant point on the horizon that only he seemed capable of discerning.

"Beggars have not the privilege of deciding their fate. Take charity where it is offered. For now, I am inclined to keep you where I can see you. Ritvic, you may now enter! Please escort Miss Rothbauer to one of the guest rooms."

* * *

A/N: My thanks to Lyralamora, frankannestein (glad you like Meira!), Kazzlar (yay, another Gabranth fangirl like me! lol) and Undeniable Mystique for their reviews. Special thanks to Lady Nightspike for help with editing.


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